Go Fetch
by JWWells
Summary: In Uberwald, they say that to see a Double-Shade is to see the face of Death. In Lancre, they say that a doomed soul may see an image of himself in the night - a Fetch. Havelock Vetinari - meet Havelock Vetinari.
1. The Knife and the Stone

[Disclaimer: The Discworld and all related characters are the property of Terry Pratchett. This piece of fiction is not his work, but it draws so heavily upon his work that he may be considered to reserve all rights to it – whether he wants them or not.

On a more personal note, this is my first piece of fanfiction. It is set shortly after the events – or most of the events – in _Night Watch_.]

* * *

A brief explanation of the role of Assassins on the Discworld may be in order.

Assassins are respectable people. They train at a prestigious Guild, wear a distinctive uniform, and speak with impeccable grammar. Furthermore, they carry business cards, which is, in itself, a guarantee of respectability. Assassins are the finest ladies and gentlemen on the Disc.

Assassins are honest workers. Granted, their occupation may be frowned upon in certain backwoods localities, but they are well aware of that. They simply see it as one more reason to travel armed; foreigners can be so terribly _gauche_. In Ankh-Morpork, however, the services of the Assassins are as integral a part of the upper-class lifestyle [1] as cross-gartered stockings and unidentifiable frilly accessories. When the job is not performed cleanly and efficiently, the fragile fabric of Society disintegrates. A true Assassin never settles for anything less than a job done right.

Assassins are keen entrepreneurs. They know exactly how much a human life is worth, and, in many cases, can wheedle enough coin from a patron to cause him to run deeply into debt. At this point, of course, somebody looks to collect, the patron becomes a client, and the cycle begins anew, with the series of contracts turning the wheels of commerce like blood through a watermill.

There is no possible doubt in the matter; Assassins are respectable, conscientious businesspeople.

In this respect, they resemble another group that is both esteemed and necessary: the Guild of Seamstresses. But the Seamstresses serve _all_ classes.

[1] The word "lifestyle" was first introduced to Ankh-Morpork by a visiting campire [2] of Uberwald. Until then, the term used was "life." The upper-classes embraced the neologism; after all, anybody can live – goodness, the poor seem to be doing it more than ever nowadays! – but only the Right People can have a Lifestyle.

[2] Campires are quite rare, and may be distinguished from vampires by the symbols that repel them. Vampires fear axes of Blind Io and other religious paraphernalia. Campires abhor drab clothing and _frightful_ hair.

* * *

The knives arced through the air, glinting in the firelight. Some were thin as needles, the better to pierce between armor plates, or chinks of chainmail, or vertebrae. Others were daggers, so perfectly dagger-shaped that you could use them to mark footnotes. And every one of them was being flung with steel-cracking force at a wall that had broken far weaker implements over the centuries. Twenty-five young Assassins held their breath as the scraping of metal on stone punctuated the silence.

Like an adolescent, drunken colossus, the knife-thrower posed atop a table, boards creaking under his boots, beer mugs hastily kicked aside. Next to him, seated on the bench, a slender underclassman watched, his expression placidly unreadable. Even through the haze of liquor, it occurred to the knife-thrower that this was worse than heckling on some fundamental level, and so, without letting his throwing arm falter, he spared the watcher a glance. "Eh, how do you like that, Dog-Botherer?"

"Remarkable," said the watcher, seated. It was always a useful word. "Tell me, Downey, are those Guild stilettos?"

"You worried I'm going to break them?"

"That would be unfortunate."

"Haven't missed the chinks yet, Dog-Botherer! Say, should I try it from farther away? I think I _will_!"

Young Downey jumped down, strode across the dining hall of the Guild and stood by the fireplace. The far wall, exactly eight octisnicks [1] away, flickered only dimly, as the firelight seemed to graze it reluctantly and glancingly. A romantic observer might have attributed this to an act of deference, the rays of light bowing solemnly away from the Inhumagraphia that decked the wall.

Havelock Vetinari was not a romantic observer, and what _he_ saw was a drunken fool flinging guild property at a stone wall in dim light. No doubt Downey stole the blades from Lady Calomel's bedroom and intended to return them later that night with an anonymous, but obnoxious, note. Vetinari did not approve of this sort of showiness. Theatrics, he thought, should be saved for the theater.

He winced slightly as Downey gave a theatrical grin and the watching students silently applauded. With a peculiar, drunken grace, Downey flung another knife at the stonework, where it jammed into a crack between the blocks, joining eight others. Bowing in a way that clearly was not meant to convey an iota of humility, he drew the last stiletto from the silk pouch at his waist.

And stopped. Vetinari was grasping the knife by the blade. "Downey," he pronounced with oracular solemnity, "you are drunk."

Downey racked his brains for a comeback. Something pithy.

"Well, you're a scag, Vetinari. And I throw better drunk than you could sober."

Vetinari sighed and released the stiletto. He knew enough about Malignity to realize that Downey had pushed his luck too far. It's always the last one that breaks. If the boy had borrowed anything from anybody, it was time that they took it back. Before it was returned to his relations with his other effects and an apologetic note.

[1] The official Assassin unit of length, the snick is defined as the length of an Agatean throwing dagger, model A5.

It was the middle of the night by Calomel's clock. In a room tastefully decorated with black violets, purple silks, and soft carpeting, which politely concealed blowguns, suspended blades, and _very_ creaky floorboards, the Keeper of the Blades slept fitfully, prey to unsettling dreams. It has been said that there's no rest for the wicked; this is certainly true for the wicked with wicked indigestion.

The raven perched on the windowsill was dreaming too. Ghastly nightmares; he was perching precariously on a slippery bust while a deranged man ranted below. And there was the word, always the word, the alien refrain that had replaced his beautiful baritone-tenor caw. It was coming again!

"CAWcawCAW!"

The raven jerked awake and nearly rolled off the windowsill. Hopefully, nobody had heard.

"WHOOO!"

Bother. A nearby owl had noticed.

"COCK-A-DOODLE-DOO!"

And awakened the crowing cockerel in the Guild courtyard.

Lady Calomel jerked awake and neatly rolled to her left, dodging a potential dagger. She scanned the room silently for intruders. Had somebody come for the knives? She would face death before she was disgraced with their theft [1]. They were precious to her and – she clicked open the false bottom of her nightstand – gone!

After wrapping a thick, crimson scarf around her neck to keep out the cold, Deirdre Calomel tucked three daggers into the sash of her flimsy _peignoir_ and sprinted out into the freezing halls of the Guild. Her little ones needed her, and if any harm came to them, the price would be paid in flesh and blood. And possibly nerve tissue.

[1] Preferably somebody else's death, really.

* * *

Downey held the stiletto high above his head, and closed his eyes. "And now," he said, "for the _gran fin-alley_!" Again, a blade shot through the air.

CRACK. TING. TING.

As the fragments of the knife spun slowly to a stop on the stone floor, the watching students remained appropriately silent. This was a grim moment, after all, and although only one thought ran through their minds, they waited a full five seconds to vocalize it.

"DIBS ON HIS ROOM!"


	2. A Bit of Nepotism

[Let me emphasize once more – I don't own the Discworld. Terry Pratchett does.]

The young Assassins filtered solemnly out of the Dining Hall. It was time for Room Picks [1], and some lucky sod was going to get the posh furniture.

Downey sat on the table and stared blankly at the shards of the broken blade. The whiskbroom of disaster was slowly brushing away the obscuring dust of drunkeness from his brain. It was all becoming horribly clear. There was no escaping Fate. Not with this many witnesses.

Maybe, Downey thought, Lady Calomel would be easy on him, and he would just be expelled, in two or three pieces at the very most. He began considering the openings available with the local beggars. If he learned to curb his sneering a little, he could make a living wage. Certainly the beggars needed another down-on-his-luck legless, armless, ex-Assassin nobleman!

On second thought, they probably had enough already. And the thought of earning a living wage made the alternative seem quite attractive, in Downey's eyes. A Downey, even a disowned Downey, could never plead or scratch a living from the soil. It was a matter of pride, really. No, begging was out of the question.

"Would Lady Calomel really kill me," thought Downey, "when I've been such a good, responsible –"

"NEPHEW! What is _this?_" 

[1] At many colleges and universities, Room Picks are a cutthroat business, with students going to extreme lengths to secure "the nice room, you know, the one with the couch." Young Assassins just draw lots; they know a minefield when they see it.

* * *

Lady Calomel was an excellent shrieker – what her mezzo-soprano tones lacked in subtlety they easily made up for in crystal-shattering volume and pitch. How she managed to fit that much noise in her thin frame was one of the great enigmas of the Disc. Listen; this is a command performance.

"So you drank _five_ Old Peculiars and _broke_ the Founder's Blade on a _bet_!"

It is to Downey's credit that he did not correct her on this point. If he had replied that, no, he had broken the stiletto on a _wall_, it would have doubtless gone badly with him. As it happened, he was almost as good at groveling as Aunt Deirdre was at shrieking. 

"I'm really veryveryvery sorry Aunt! It won't happen again!"

"Of course it won't, you _stupid_ _ox_. _There's no BLADE left to BREAK_!"

"Please, Aunt, I know how you love your knives so, but it was an accident and I was a bit tipsy and you can get another, can't you please don't kill me! Please? Please?"

"Don't _grovel_, boy. I don't want to have to kill you."

Downey rejoiced inwardly at this news. She had certainly fooled him. If she didn't want to kill him, she might be willing to pull a few strings, or possibly frame some scag for the whole mess and forget about it.

"Then again," said Lady Calomel after a moment's pause, "maybe I _do_ want to have to kill you." Her voice was becoming dangerously quiet. "You abused my trust, broke into my room, stole a priceless treasure, and placed me in a _very_ bad position. Now, do you have any idea what I should do with you?"

Think quick, thought Downey, use the old Downey brains.

"Ah, don't kill me?"

"You always were a fool, boy, did you know that?" Lady Calomel sighed, pulled up a chair, and sighed again, for effect. "The faculty will want to know what happened to the Blade," she said levelly, "and they'll want a culprit. If I report you, they'll kill you and I'll lose my place here. If I _don't_ report you, they'll kill _me_ for failing to find the thief and you'll live. Do you _understand_, boy?"

"I'm veryveryvery_very_ sorry can I pay for it?" Downey knew full well that he couldn't possibly pay for the stiletto, except possibly with his life, but asking might be a good show of faith. Certainly he couldn't have known how expensive it really was if was offering to pay for it, right? [1] He silently hoped that none of his classmates were watching him grovel; it would be the ultimate humiliation.

On cue, a young man in grey stepped out of the shadows. He had been watching.

With speed that a cockroach on Jink [2] would envy, Lady Calomel pulled a dagger from her sash and did a tight backflip over the back of her chair, landing in a crouch while simultaneously flinging a dagger at Havelock Vetinari.

Under most circumstances, this maneuver would have been truly impressive, and garnered at least a 9.8 from any watching judges. However, the fact that the dagger missed its mark entirely would have likely earned a heavy deduction. With a complete disregard for the look of the thing, Havelock Vetinari had stepped one foot to the side during the somersault. Unfazed, he bowed politely.

"My name is Havelock Vetinari. It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Calomel."

There was an awkward pause.

"Madam, you cut through your sash. Might I suggest a curtain rope?"

[1] This reasoning represented the intellectual high point of Downey's day. It's all downhill from here.

[2] Jink, the second-most controlled substance on the Disc, induces sleeplessness and sudden bursts of agility and speed. Unfortunately, the effect is not always perfectly distributed throughout the body, and several tragic deaths have been attributed to Displacement Syndrome, wherein one's brain cannot keep pace with one's skull, and soon finds itself in a different room entirely.

* * *

After readjusting her nightgown, which now featured a silk-rope belt, Lady Calomel stepped out from behind the Great Tapestry and tried to maintain her composure.

"Did you hear us? Where _were you_?"

"I was simply waiting for a chance to speak."

Downey ground his teeth as silently as he could. This was just too much. The worst part of it was that Dog-Botherer was certain to tell _nobody_ about the groveling. Suddenly, Downey realized, having the entire student body aware of his humiliation seemed far less terrible. "Vetinari," he muttered, "you could hide in the shadow of a bleeding flame."

"I have never tried, Downey. Now, I have a suggestion that you may find practical. Unless you have a better idea, of course. In that case, I would very much like to hear it."

Without awaiting a reply, Vetinari retrieved the dagger embedded in the Inhumagraphium behind him, polished the blade with his sleeve, and placed it on the table for Lady Calomel. Soundlessly tucking the knife back into her sash, the Keeper of the Blades watched as Vetinari turned his back to her and checked the painting for any significant damage.

Lady Calomel was impressed. This one had Nerve. He had Style. And, most importantly, he had cleaned the dagger. Downey, she felt, could learn a few things from him. "What," she asked, "is your suggestion?"

"Before I discuss my proposal, I would appreciate it, madam, if you assuaged my curiosity. How did Downey find the blades? You are very careful with them, no doubt. Surely you had them… well-protected." Vetinari raised his eyebrows slightly and turned to Downey. This was a moment to treasure.

Sweat was trickling down Downey's forehead. "Well, I can explain that, actually."

"Quiet. One of the terms of the boy's allowance – or, as he prefers to call it, _stipend_, hah - is that he must perform chores. Last week, I told him to use what he learned in class to set traps in my room for potential thieves. I already had traps set up, of course, but I disarmed them so that the _fool_ wouldn't get himself killed."

"You desired to see if he had been listening in class?"

"Yes. In any case, the boy surprised me, and did a decent job of it. I paid him the five dollars we agreed to." Here she stopped and turned back to Downey. "In _hindsight_, it was probably the _worst_ five dollars I ever spent."

Downey fished around in his side pocket for his wallet. He fervently hoped he had taken the teddy bear pictures out of it when he bought it the day before; more humiliation was the last thing he needed. Now, it was time to grease the wheels a bit. "Oh, would you like a refund?"

A glare from his aunt silenced him, as only the glares of aunts can. She was growing impatient. Vetinari was certainly taking his time in making his point. If she didn't know better, she would have thought he enjoyed this.

"Madam, I suggest that you make a replica of the Founder's Blade."

Lady Calomel was disappointed. She had expected better; the boy had looked bright. For a moment, she had actually believed that he had the solution.

"Havelock," she said, "there are three problems there. First, an expert could easily detect a forgery. Second, Commencement is tomorrow, and we could _hardly_ forge a … forgery overnight. Finally, even if we had the time, nobody would be willing to do such a risky job. No, you should go to bed and forget you saw any of this."

Leaning forward on the table, Vetinari looked directly into Lady Calomel's eyes. She found that it was rather like being stared down by a crossbow.

"Madam, the first problem poses no difficulty. _You_ are the expert. If you state that the blade is authentic, then the blade is obviously authentic. As for the second and third problems – I did not suggest using a blacksmith. You may wish to find assistance elsewhere. May I suggest Unseen University?"

"What? Get involved with those crooked parasites? They would turn us into something dreadful, I'm sure of it!"

Vetinari expected denseness from a woman who trusted Downey to set her traps, but this was far too much. He smothered a sigh, and replied calmly. "Lady Calomel, I was referring to the students, not the faculty. There are many, ah, blossoming young talents there. Apprentices willing to do nearly anything for a week of ale money."

Vetinari paused a moment. Did he have to spell _everything_ out?

"Including illusion work. Good evening, madam."

The double doors of the hall slowly shut. Very subtly, Vetinari smiled as he walked back to his room. What sort of Assassin wears a long scarf to a potential inhumation?

A red scarf! An Assassin, thought Vetinari, should be as visible as dust on the wall. 

* * *

Lady Calomel slipped soundlessly through the halls of Unseen University, stopping frequently to stand behind pillars and peek around them, dramatically glancing about. Her instincts told her that the students would be found as far away from the faculty as possible. Slowly and deliberately, she moved turnwise, away from the Administration Department.

Downey walked behind her, the soles of his boots slapping the stone floors loudly. It was best, he decided, to let Aunt Deirdre have her fun. She had been behind a desk for years now, and this was the closest she was going to get to recapturing the glories – mediocrities, actually - of her youth. It wouldn't do to antagonize her.

Although, come to think of it, he _was_ rather annoyed that she wouldn't let him show her the map he picked up at the Bursar's Office. She wouldn't even ask for him to direct her; at this rate, it would take them at least another hour to find the dormitories.

On second thought, was that the Student's Hall up ahead? "Of course," thought Downey, "I've been holding the map upside-down. That could be it."

"Is anybody still up at this hour, or has Dog-Botherer sent us here for nothing?"

"Quiet, boy. Look, there's light under that door. Room 7a."

Calomel strode up to the door and knocked in a suitably Wagnerian manner. The booming thuds reverberated through the halls, as all midnight knocks do, and there was the sound of the room's occupant stumbling about. The door creaked open. A boy peeked out.

He looked rather like a shabby, teenaged weasel.

(To be continued. Yes, I'm aware that the Dustmen of the title haven't appeared yet. They will.)


	3. Searching by Night

[This is a rather short chapter. I'm just posting it to show that the story still aten't dead.]

The fire in the hearth had long since died, but a feeble glow lit the Dining Hall. Floating like a corpse candle, a glass orb cast a pale sphere of blue light. By this arcane illumination, an ancient wizard knelt on the cold floor, scrutinizing the knives imbedded in the wall. His eyes were copper pennies in the dark. His crabbed hands ran over the hilts, feeling for his Master's mark. Nine were there – but where was the tenth?

With a harsh, rasping sigh, the sage spoke.

"Oh, bugger."

At this point, the salamander sphere flickered out, leaving the old man muttering in darkness.

"Now this. Buy a cheap one, he said. You won't need it long, he said. Hah! When you buy a light source, you always go for quality, that's what I -"

The wizard stopped short. There was a blue glow again, but it was brighter. Horribly brighter. Two flaring pinpoints of light stared directly into his eyes. Death had come to check on his progress.

ALBERT, YOU HAVE NOT FOUND IT?

"I'm looking, Master, I'm looking, but I don't think the thing's here!"

YOU STATED THAT YOU HAD A PLAN.

"I did. I disguised myself as a servant, see, and bet Downey a pint that he couldn't steal the guild knives from his aunt."

AND HE FAILED?

"No, he got 'em, and so I had to get 'em off him. I doubled the bet and had him throw the knives at this crack. Told him he wouldn't be able to do it without breaking them." Albert felt the vaguest suspicion that Death already knew this, but he preferred to tell it himself. If he concentrated on repeating the events, he wouldn't have to think about their consequences.

I SEE.

Albert paused. This was a delicate point.

"Well, the thing is, Master…"

YES?

The two actinic flares loomed closer. Gods, that grin; the Master could intimidate with the best of them. "The worst part," thought Albert, "is that he's probably trying to put me at ease."

"He got drunk."

AND BROKE MY BLADE.

"No," Albert mentally corrected himself, "he's definitely _not_ trying to put me at ease."

"Er... yes."

I AM NOT PLEASED.

"We can fix it, we can reforge it! It just needs - "

NO. THE BLADE IS NO GREAT LOSS TO ME. I CAN MAKE ANOTHER SOON ENOUGH.

This was a surprise, but Albert knew an opening when he saw one. Doing his best to appear vaguely affronted, he made an uncharacteristic effort to gain control of the conversation. "Well," he harrumphed, "the way you were carrying on, I'd think the fate of the Disc rested on the bloody thing. I mean, you didn't even notice it missing until yesterday!"

SILENCE.

Ah, well. "Yes, Master." Death turned around and began to pace. His feet clicked on the floor in maddening little iambics. He was always thinking, the Master was – he had so much to think about – but now he was _pondering_. This was not a good sign. When Death started pondering, unpleasant things happened. [1]

THE BLADE MEANS LITTLE TO ME, BUT IT IS TERRIBLE IN THE WRONG HANDS. IT CAN CUT SOUL FROM FLESH. AND YOU LOST IT TO THE FOUNDER OF THE _ASSASSIN'S _GUILD. DID YOU NOT THINK TO TELL ME?

"It was just a friendly game, and Master, how was I to know he would draw to an inside - "

YOU DID NOT TELL ME. NOT UNTIL I NEEDED IT. HAD IT NOT BEEN TREATED AS A… MUSEUM PIECE, IT WOULD HAVE DONE GREAT ILL DURING ITS CENTURIES OF DORMANCY. AS IT STANDS, YOU HAVE ABUSED MY TRUST AND PLACED ME IN A _VERY_ UNFORTUNATE POSITION. [2]

Death turned back to Albert, who was now wringing his hands behind his back.

ALBERT…

Here it comes, thought Albert, I'm going to get the sack, and the Arrangement's going to be done with, and I'm going to die, and damn, damn, damn, I forgot to bring my hat.

IS CRIPPLE MR. ONION _THAT_ COMPELLING?

Death drew closer, his eyes blazing a terrible infinity.

COULD YOU TEACH ME HOW TO PLAY?

[1] Like Ysabell.

[2] Some things just _have to be said_ in any situation like this.

* * *

Crouching on the floor of his room, Rincewind flipped furiously through Alberto Malich's_ Do-It-Yourefelfe Occulte Repair Grimoire for Little Moronnes_. [1] He was having a bit of trouble on the more obscure vocabulary, but dealt with that mainly by ignoring it. A bespectacled, freckled child of eleven years sat behind him on a chest of drawers, swinging his legs and perusing a folio copy of the _Principia Alchymica_. 

Shaking his head, Rincewind slammed his book shut, unwittingly crushing a cockroach between the priceless, ancient pages. If the wizzard-in-training had whiskers, they would have twitched nervously at this point. "There's bugg – bother all in here, Stibbons. And you haven't found it either, have you. Have you?" He looked pleadingly at the boy.

"Well, I got an idea, sir. We can mix up some lead and tin, it says here, and that'll melt onto the pieces of the knife and stick them. Then we can use Caskle's Vision of Perfection to make an illusion. It'll look good as new."

Rincewind dropped his grimoire in shock. Luck! Real, honest-to-Gods luck! No, there was always a catch, wasn't there? He took a deep breath, trying his very hardest to ignore the book that was chewing on his slippers.

"Very good, Stibbons, very good, we'll make a real wizard of you yet! But tell me… do you think I'll need to gather any _ingredients_ for the spell? You know, far-fetched stuff, things I have to travel around the world for? Risk my neck a hundred times over, perhaps? Dragon breath, little sticks of incense, quantum butterflies, that sort of thing?"

"Er… no, sir. I think a lead candlestick and a tin saucer'll work. And we've got those here… see? We just need something hot." Ponder was nervous. He hadn't seen Rincewind like this before; usually he was drunk or hiding, or possibly both. There was something frightening about the man now. Being near him was like climbing a lightning rod and waving a copper wool flag.

"How hot is that? Brimstone hot? Or just blazing curry hot?"

Ponder performed a few mental calculations, synapses clicking on and off like millions of little abacus beads. He said, "I think I know what we need, actually." With an awkward thunk, he jumped – rather, fell – off the drawers, then wriggled clumsily under the bunks. Rincewind kneaded his hands anxiously as the sounds of shuffling paper emerged from the piles underneath. Why couldn't Ponder use a desk like a normal boy?

After a few more minutes, Ponder slid back out and readjusted his glasses. Very gently setting a wire cage on Rincewind's desk, he said, "I've been keeping Didac here a secret, sir. Didn't want the rectors to find out. He should give us a few warming-water-up-units of heat."

"You've been keeping a _dragon_ under our bunk!"

Rincewind immediately realized how stupid that line sounded.

[1] In Albert's view, the main difference between a child and a stupid, selfish adult was that the adult paid taxes and occasionally shut up.

* * *

Droplets of mercury slid down the side of the phial, pooling at the bottom in a shiny globule. The quicksilver glinted in the moonlight streaming through the casement, reflecting and distorting Lady Calomel's thin face. Shivering slightly in the night air, the Assassin placed a glass stopped in the container, tied it to the end of her rope sash, and replaced the vat of mercury on the lab bench.

After leaving a few gold pieces on the windowsill, Calomel slipped up the chimney and out into the night. She had a few hours left, still, and only two more ingredients to gather. Thievery was not her _forte_, but she was doing well enough. And, she decided, the alchemist who lived in the shop below likely wouldn't miss the mercury in the least.

When she reached the street below, Downey was waiting for her, holding a small canvas sack.

"I've got the potatoes, Aunt. What's left on Weasel-Boy's list?"

"Quiet, boy. No doubt he could turn you into a _frog_ before you knew what was happening."

Calomel reconsidered that statement, as it could imply anything from instant transmogrification to a fifty-year delay.

"Or even before you saw his hands wiggle!" That was better.

"But what does he need these spell ingredients for?" Downey was slowly beginning to make a deduction; it was a new and oddly pleasing experience. "If he's playing silly buggers with us," he muttered, "I'm taking it out of his throat." [1]

"When the time comes, we'll see. As it stands, I don't think that a bit of mercury and a voucher for _beer_ is a heavy price to pay for your life. Do you want to bargain with him, boy?"

"No, aunt. Verysorry."

"Good. Now, we just need to pick up the boy's payment at the Drum and find the last thing he needs for the spell." She pulled a thin piece of parchment from her gown and squinted at the scribbles. "A youth of dexterity, wit, and discretion in good physical condition."

"Well, I could -"

"No, boy. I have a better idea."

Even Lady Calomel could work out how to get _this_ one..

[1] Occasionally, Downey was surprisingly perceptive. And, had he known, he would have taken great comfort in the fact that Rincewind would eventually find that the universe was going to repay him for his deception with dividends. And little sticks of incense. And mouse blood.


End file.
